Kidnapped
by sky.guinalie
Summary: For John, it's a whirlwind of being drugged, captured, and a redhead asking for directions. For Sherlock, it's a realization of how much he needs his faithful blogger. For Moriarty it's all a game, and for Sebastian it's a wakeup call to change some of the evil he did before it's all too late. Kidnapped.
1. Chapter 1

A/N- For my lovely friend Dea(dealepage), who pushed me to write Moriarty. The italics are thoughts, as always in my writings. Before Reichenbach.

"I'm gonna go out for some milk, alright?" John asked. He peeked around the door to where Sherlock was on the couch, hands in that praying position.

"Hm?" Sherlock left his mind palace, turning to look at John. "Yes."

John left, carefully closing the door behind him.

Sherlock sighed. _Who is John's current girlfriend? Does he even have one now? Is it Sarah? Veronica? I've lost count, and I have no idea why I care in the first place. The case, Sherlock, focus on the case. _

John strode confidently down the street. It was dark out, and the crisp wet air fully woke the doctor up. The multicolored lights of the signs and buildings illuminated his route. _I love taking walks, I don't know why but they're always lovely. That flower, there, that's pretty. _John bent down, and kneeled on the concrete by a moon-brightened lily. _Say, it's about the color of Sherlock's eyes. I've never been able to name a color for them before. Now I know. I've got to tell him that his eyes are the color Midnight Lily. _

John continued thinking kittenish thoughts as he walked to the store. It was about two blocks away when someone tapped him on the shoulder. "How may I help you?" he asked, being the polite and disciplined man he was.

"May I have directions?" asked the woman. Her red curls literally glowed in the moonlight.

"Uh, sure," John said, not sure whether to be suspicious or not of this woman approaching him in a darkened street.

"Two two one Baker Street," she said, smirking.

"Right…" John let his voice trail off as he thought. _Sherlock wouldn't like me directing a stranger straight to our house. _"Just keep going this way-" he pointed in the direction of the store he was heading to, the opposite way of the flat. "-And you should come right to it."

"Thanks," she said, placing a gloved hand on the back of his neck. "But you're lying."

John felt something sharp prick the nape of his neck, and his vision began to swim. "Sorry, I didn't mean it," he said groggily, beginning to lose consciousness. _Oh, god, help me. What has she injected me with? Poison? God, no. Please, no. _

As our loyal doctor continued to fade off, a familiar man stepped before him. "Hahaha. Good, very good." The man laughed some more. "Miss me, Johnny boy?" He ran his hand along John's jaw.

John gritted his teeth, but he couldn't do anything to stop that nightmare man. Sherlock's real arch-nemesis, not Mycroft. Moriarty.

"And you're just the perfect bait for my trap," Moriarty continued, humming a little tune to himself. "My trap for the world's one and only consulting detective."

_No. No! Not Sherlock, he can't take Sherlock. It'll be all my fault. _"Sherlock! It's a trap! Don't come looking for me…" John's irrational yelled attempt to warn his friend trailed off as his eyes rolled back in his head, the drug finally taking effect. The yell would never reach Sherlock, over four blocks away.

"Oh, look at that," Moriarty said, letting John's small form fall limp onto the concrete. He turned to the cab. "Sebastian!"

The gunman stepped out of the driver's seat and strode over to the pair and the immobile John. It hadn't been hard to hijack the cab. "Yes, sir."

"Could you take our lovely little doctor to the cab, please?" Moriarty asked, posing the order as a question. "And make sure not to hurt that pretty face of his, Sherlock would flip out."

Sebastian easily scooped John off the ground and laid him in the back of the cab. He got in the driver's seat and Moriarty in the passenger. The redhead, Kitty, found room in the back as well. John wasn't very big at all.

And the cab drove off, and for all the passersby knew it was a harmless couple helping their drunk and passed out friend home. No one realized the kidnapping, for the one person who could wasn't there. He was in his mind palace, waiting for a certain doctor to come home.


	2. Chapter 2

"John!" Sherlock called, sitting up. Several hours had passed, the doctor still wasn't back yet, and the detective needed his phone. "John! Where the hell is he?" Sherlock kicked a stack of papers.

"Are you alright, dear?" asked Mrs. Hudson, peeking around the door. "I heard a racket, and-"

"My phone, Mrs. Hudson. I need my phone," Sherlock said, turning to her and shaking his hands to enunciate. "Be a dear and get it for me."

"Of course," Mrs. Hudson replied. "Where is it?"

"In my coat pocket," the consulting detective replied.

Mrs. Hudson sighed. "But you've paced past your coat twice, dear."

"Just get it!" Sherlock exclaimed, flopping back into his chair. "I need to contact John."

"Oh, where is he, by the way?" asked the landlady, fishing around in the coat pocket and producing the phone, which she handed to her tenant. "It's nearly midnight."

"At the store," answered Sherlock. "And he's been gone for three hours and twenty-seven minutes."

"Oh, that's quite a while," Mrs. Hudson commented placidly.

"Yes, so he must not still be there," Sherlock said, as if he'd already said it countless times. "Did he decide to talk a longer walk? Possibly; he likes walks. But not three hour ones. Maybe he was injured somehow and is now in the hospital. No. 'No?' Of course not, because you would have gotten a call by now. Did he get lost? Perhaps. But he's very rational and has a long history of war in warm places and of feasibly getting lost many times in the desert and it would be second nature for him to call."

"Why don't you call him, dear?" asked Mrs. Hudson, gesturing to the phone in Sherlock's pale hand.

"Call him? Oh, no, Mrs. Hudson. Calling would be futile," Sherlock said with a sigh.

"But I got your phone so you could reach him," protested the landlady.

"No use now," said Sherlock, nearly smiling. "His phone's in this building. 'It is?' Yes, naturally, he's left it in the pocket of his jacket. The black felt-and-leather. And he didn't take the jacket with him because it's a warm night and despite his always-be-prepared manner, the store's only several blocks away."

"Should I call just in case?" asked Mrs. Hudson, not doubting Sherlock's deductions but not wanting to believe what was coming next.

"If it makes you feel better," Sherlock said, and he dropped the phone into the landlady's hands.

"So, what do you figure happened to him?" asked Mrs. Hudson.

"He's not at the store." Sherlock pushed his hands together. "He's not at the hospital; he's not on the streets. Did he visit a friend? No, he would have texted me through their…" Sherlock stopped, his hands dropping from his lips. He stood up. "Through their phone! That's it!"

"It's what, dear?" Mrs. Hudson sighed, used to Sherlock's unexplained exclamations.

"Phone." Sherlock held out a hand, closing his eyes until he felt the cold metallic device hit his palm. "I've got to get in touch with an old friend. You can leave now."

"Alright, dear." Mrs. Hudson creaked down the stairs.

"Where. Is. He." Sherlock's voice shook with rage as he spoke the words he typed. _How dare he? This was always between just you and me. You have no right to bring him into this!_ The thoughts raced through his head as he sat back once more and ran, his steps echoing in the empty halls of his mind palace. Ripping through the virtual pieces of information and cluttering his always-pristine piles of documents.

Sherlock didn't know what came over him. He was ruining his mind palace, unpacking all the carefully sorted facts; but he didn't care. He had to find everything, anything that would help him get to John.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N- You'll notice in this that Sebby's my comic relief. The more I write him, the more I love him! And he's going to be a major part in it.

John woke with a pounding headache. "Where… am I?" he muttered to himself, upset when his words slurred together. _Oh, of course. That lady drugged me, and Moriarty- Moriarty! Where's Sherlock? _

"Ah, awake, dear?" Moriarty's singsong voice drifted into John's mind.

The doctor looked up painfully and saw the psychopath standing over him. _Huh, I'm shorter than usual compared with him… Right. I must be tied up somehow. Yes, I can't move my hands. Chained to the wall. Oh, god, my head hurts._

"A bit groggy, are we?" Moriarty said snidely, kneeling next to the doctor.

"Sherlock," John replied. In his cluttered and drugged mind, it was a perfectly reasonable response. _I have to know where he is. Do you have him somewhere? Can I see him?_

"Ah, talks of his lover," Moriarty sang, standing up and spinning around.

"We're not-"

"I know, I know," Moriarty said. "Now, where were you? You miss him?"

John sighed, trying to clear his head. He propped himself up to a sitting position. "Uh… why me?"

"Forgotten already?" Moriarty gasped in mock surprise. "Well, you were pretty heavily drugged, I suppose. I need you to lure Sherlock to me."

"No!" John's voice cracked. _I said that louder than I should have, didn't I?_ "No, that's a really bad idea. He-he doesn't care about me, see?" John quickly tried to convince Moriarty not to take Sherlock. "He won't even show up, so how about you untie me and let me go, huh?"

"Hmmm. Methinks not," Moriarty said with a smile. "And you're wrong, he does care about you." He pulled out his phone and tapped in a message, then showed it to John. It was sent to Sherlock.

**I heard you've lost your pet. I've got him, if you want him back.**

"No…" John breathed.

In moments, Sherlock had responded.

**Where the hell have you got him? If you dare touch him, I shall kill you slowly.**

"Touching, isn't it?" Moriarty grinned.

John gritted his teeth. _Lunatic. _"Yeah, lovely."

"Now, shall I tell him where we are?" asked Moriarty.

"No, no, no, please don't… It'll be all my fault if he shows up and you just…" John's voice trailed off. "This is a complicated trap."

"Hm, indeed," Moriarty replied. "Now, you want Sherlock to stay away? You'll sacrifice whatever I want to keep him safe?"

"Yeah. Yes, I will," John said firmly.

Moriarty smirked. "Let's see if you still feel that way once Sebby's done with you. Oh, Sebastian!" he called.

The blonde gunman peeked around the door. "Huh?" In his hand was a cup of coffee. "Oh, he's come around!"

"Yes, I have," John spat. "Where am I, and what are you going to do with me?"

"Feisty," Sebastian commented.

"Seb! Keep on task," Moriarty commanded.

"Right," Seb said, lowering his voice slightly. "We're in a Jim-place… I think it's the Abbey of Saint Clair, but not the new one, the old dusty one…"

"Continue," John said.

"And… Jim, what am I gonna do with him?" Seb asked, turning to Moriarty.

"Oh," Moriarty said. "Just something with your knife."

"Uh, which one?" Seb asked. "I have, like, eighty thousand, you know."

"Any of them!" Moriarty exclaimed, annoyed with Sebastian.

The gunman stepped out of the room momentarily.

John sighed. "You're going to stab me?"

"No," Moriarty said, kneeling down again. "More like… Seb, scratch that. You don't need a knife."

Sebastian rolled his eyes. "Seriously? But I just got-" He held up a long Bowie knife. He sighed, and disappeared around the door again.

"John, have you heard of pressure points?" asked Moriarty.

"Yes, of course I have," John said mechanically, his medical side kicking in. "I'm a doctor. They're areas packed with nerves used for healing in old Japanese and other East Asian customs and also… Oh."

Realization hit John like a bullet.

Moriarty smiled. "Go on, it was such a lovely description."

John felt sick. "And also used to induce extreme pain if manipulated the right way."

A maniacal grin was now decorating Moriarty's face. "Exactly, darling, exactly."

The doctor took a deep breath in. _He will not break me,_ he told himself. _Stay strong, John. Just like Afghanistan. _

But it wasn't just like Afghanistan, because this time, John was contending with one Jim Moriarty, thus it would be much, much worse.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N- I found out that I hate writing Mycroft! He's so difficult to work with! If only everyone could be as simple as John.

"Where is he?" screamed Sherlock, shooting at the wall frantically. He dropped the gun on the floor and bent to retrieve his phone, which he'd thrown earlier. He called Moriarty.

"Hello, Jim speaking." The horrid sickly sweet voice floated through the phone.

"What have you done with him?" Sherlock was appalled to hear his voice shaking so thoroughly. He felt tears well in his eyes. _What is happening to me?_

"Oh, you know. The usual."

Sherlock inhaled. _I can't even take a breath without my diaphragm convulsing. The side effect of having your one and only friend's life in the hands of a murdering psychopath, I suppose. _"What is that?"

"I can't tell you, sexy!" Moriarty exclaimed. "That would ruin all the fun!"

A tear streaked down Sherlock's pale cheek. "You think this is fun for me? You think it's fun? My best friend could be dead for all I know. His life hangs by a thread, a thread which you're holding. I- I-" The consulting detective took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Look at you!" Moriarty sounded mock surprised. "Wait-don't tell me. Are you crying?"

"No." Sherlock reached up quickly and wiped his eyes on his dressing gown sleeve. "Of course not, I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, and he's John Watson," Moriarty replied.

_He's crushing my heart. How does he know how to manipulate me so thoroughly? _"Where is he? Just tell me where he is."

"No," said Moriarty. "I can't, see, because our little Johnny boy begged me not to. He's so cute sometimes."

"John… told you to keep me in the dark?" Sherlock was stunned. _How could he do this to me, does he even know what I'm going through?_

"I believe his exact words were: 'No, please don't. It'll be all my fault if he shows up and you just-' Then he kind of sighed and thought for a while." Moriarty smiled. "Oh, and have you met Sebastian?"

"Who?" Sherlock asked, scared for the answer.

"Oh, just an assassin, trained gunman, torturer and killer, and… what am I missing?" Moriarty pretended to think about it. "Oh! And he's Johnny's new roommate!"

"I will rip you apart," Sherlock said slowly. "I will-"

"Ta-ta!"

The call was disconnected.

Sherlock screamed, pushing all of the frustration and fear and pent-up worry out through his lungs. He threw his phone on the ground as hard as he could, disappointed when it didn't break open. He fell back into his chair just as the flat door opened.

"Sherlock?" It was Mycroft.

"Get away."

"Oh, brother mine," Mycroft said. "Don't sulk."

"I have a perfectly good reason to sulk, a problem that's more important than you, and I'm…" His voice trailed off. "Well, I suppose I'm scared."

"Scared?" Mycroft scoffed. "Why?"

"You don't know?"

"Mrs. Hudson heard you and was worried. She called me. Why were you yelling, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, sitting in the chair next to Sherlock's.

"Get out of that chair." Sherlock's voice was so cold it hurt.

"But why? Whatever for-"

"That's John's chair, you can't sit there," said Sherlock.

"Ahhh," Mycroft sighed. "This is about John, isn't it?"

"What else could it be about; I don't care about anything else enough for it to affect me this way," Sherlock said. "Why are you here? Leave as soon as possible."

Mycroft was silent, observing and perhaps deducing Sherlock for several minutes. Then he spoke. "So, you care about this man you met less than a year ago more than your own brother?"

"Yes."

"Why, Sherlock?" Mycroft sounded genuinely hurt, his voice soft.

"Because, throughout our childhood and as adults as well, you made my life hell," Sherlock said quietly. "You intrude on whatever I do; you think you're my manager. And I hate that."

"What about John, why do you like him so much?" Mycroft pressed.

"John…" Sherlock mused, pushing his hands together and resting his fingertips on his lips.

"Why are you going to your mind palace?" asked Mycroft.

"I'm going to my John-room."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "You have a whole room just for John? What's-"

"Shut up, dear brother, I can't think," Sherlock interrupted.

And so Mycroft waited in silence for several minutes, ever patient.

"John is special to me because he's so steadfast," Sherlock said. "He's always there and no matter what he's thinking or does he puts me first. I thought it was just obedient soldier habits at first, but no. There was a night… at a pool, and Moriarty was there, and he was going to blow John up."

"Go on," Mycroft said, leaning forwards in John's chair, which he'd refused to vacate.

"And John, well, you know how small he is," Sherlock continued. "He grabbed Moriarty and hung on. So if Moriarty tried to activate the bombs, they'd both die. And he spoke to me, he said these exact words: 'Go. Sherlock, go! Run!' I didn't run, of course, but then I knew that he valued my life more than his own."

"How touching."

"He's so loyal, he'd die for me a hundred times over, even more than that. He's never mean, or rude, and somehow he always puts up with me," said Sherlock. "Another thing is how he knows I've had a bad day, and when that happens he makes me tea, or tells me how smart I am. And it makes me feel better."

"Right," Mycroft said, a look of almost-longing on his face.

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"Why what?" his brother replied.

"Why did you never do that for me; why did you never care about me the way John does?" asked Sherlock, clearly angry. "We were brothers!"

Mycroft was clearly upset. "We still are brothers, Sherlock, I-"

"No; no, I realized that I don't need a brother. I have John, and he's much more than an idiot of a brother any day," Sherlock said.

"But you don't have John," replied Mycroft.

"Get out!" Sherlock screamed. "Just get out! You can't be here; you have no right to be here!"

His voice, low and murderous, scared Mycroft. The government official picked up his umbrella, stood, and left without a word.

Several long minutes later, Mrs. Hudson peeked nervously around the door. "Sherlock, dear? Not to bother you, but you just shunned the last person you could turn to for help."

"No, it's no bother," Sherlock said, staring at the landlady until she left. _She's right. She's right, what do I do? I can't rely on Mycroft, he's the bloody worst brother in the world. Oh, that's right. We aren't brothers anymore. Lestrade will call the police, and if he does that Moriarty will kill John. John, who risks everything every day for me. If I want to win back my own trust, I'll have to rescue him alone. _


	5. Chapter 5

"Uh, John?"

The voice pulled the doctor back to consciousness. He screwed his eyes up, not wanting to see what was going on.

"Seriously. Open your eyes," said the voice.

_It would sound like Sherlock's if it said more eloquent things. Same deep tone. Sometimes I wish my voice was deeper. _John dared to glance up. It was Sebastian. His torturer. "Get away from me."

"Right… sorry about, like, that stuff."

"You think you can just say sorry and I'll be alright?" John stared at Sebastian, eyes locking, and an unstoppable fire glowing in the doctor's.

"No, really! I mean, I know I'm probably a severely wanted criminal an' stuff, but…" Sebastian hung his head. "Yeah. Jim wanted me to tell you… Ugh! I feel really awful!" The gunman put his head in his hands. "That's not what he wanted me to tell you."

"Hello, having a nice chat?" Moriarty asked, stepping into the room. He knelt next to John. "You really can't live without Sherlock, can you?"

"I had a life before I met him," John said firmly.

"Yes, but it was boring…" Moriarty sighed. "Anyways, watch this." He pulled out his phone and held it in front of John.

It was a video. Taken when John must have been slightly delirious, because the doctor didn't remember it. It was last night.

The video-John was clearly in a lot of pain, biting his lip until blood pooled around his teeth. There were tears streaking down his face. "Sher- Sherlock," stammered the video-John. "Sherlock, help."

"Now all I've gotta do is send this to our dear detective, and he'll show up in no time!" Moriarty cackled.

"No, no, please don't," John begged. "I didn't even mean that, I wasn't thinking straight. If he comes, you'll kill him, won't you?"

"Well, I don't see why not…" Moriarty tilted his head to one side like a deranged owl. He, of course, would never kill Sherlock himself, he just wanted to freak John out.

"No!" John tugged at the handcuffs that chained him to the wall, but they held and he couldn't reach Moriarty.

"Aaaand…" Moriarty tapped his phone. "Sent."

Sebastian looked between the two, who were glaring at each other harder than he'd ever seen anyone glare. "Woah…"

"Hehe… Sherlock will fall right into my trap," Moriarty said.

John took a deep breath, eyes closed, and shook his head. "No he won't. He can't, he's too bloody smart," he said, mostly to himself.

"When it comes to you, he leaves his sense behind," said Moriarty, leaning close to John. "Of course he will."

Their faces inches apart, John felt a surge of anger wash over him. He stood taller and turned, smashing his shoulder into Moriarty's chin.

"Ahh!" The psychopath fell back, his lip bleeding.

"Jim! You okay, buddy?" Sebastian exclaimed, instantly by his employer's side.

"Fine, you idiot, I'm fine," Moriarty said, wiping his face on his sleeve. He turned to John. "Have it your way, doctor. Sherlock will pay for this."

Moriarty and Sebastian were gone, the door shut behind them.

John leaned his head back and slumped against the wall. _What have I done? _


	6. Chapter 6

A/N- By the way, Sherlock has _no_ sexual thoughts running through his head. At. All. He's oblivious, he just wants to sleep in a warm comfy bed with his cuddly Jawn! :'(

Sherlock had tried to sleep, he really had. _It's what John wants, for me to be healthy._

He'd gone to his bed for once instead of lying on the couch. After about half an hour, he took John's pillow from the doctor's room and brought it to his bed. Then he tried to sleep again.

And after that didn't work, he took his and John's pillows and his sheet and went to John's room. The consulting detective curled up in his friend's bed and stuffed his face into the blankets, trying to inhale as much of John's scent as possible.

But it wasn't as comforting as Sherlock had imagined it. He lay, eyes closed, and thought. _I'd always imagined John's bed… better than this. Warmer? Fuller? With John actually in it. Hmm, I bet John snores. But just a bit; more like loud breathing. _

_Would he kick me if I came into his bed? Not on purpose. And he'd probably let me have more blankets than him… _

Sherlock found that he couldn't sleep. Not without John safe. He stayed up all night, grinding his teeth and trying to ignore his pounding headache.

The consulting detective woke that morning to Mrs. Hudson sitting by his bed. "What are you doing here."

"Well, Sherlock dear…" She sighed. "We've been a bit worried about you."

" 'We' meaning…" Sherlock let her finish the thought.

"Your brother and I," answered the landlady. "I know this is hard on you, but you have to go to the police eventually."

"No, can't." Sherlock sat up. "They'll kill John."

"Get up, alright? We'll fix this all up." Mrs. Hudson trotted downstairs.

Sherlock sighed. He stood up and reached for his phone.

There was a text. From Moriarty. The consulting detective read it.

**Old Saint Clair's. Come and play.**

Sherlock watched the clip attached, feeling sick. _What did they do to him? _He felt something like never before pull at his soul; he was physically hurt.

The consulting detective almost couldn't stop himself as he raced down the stairs and out onto the London streets. Not that he would have wanted to stop. The taxi ride to the old church seemed too slow, and Sherlock found himself yelling at the cabby more than a few times.

When he arrived, it was nearly noon and the sun beat down on him. Finding the doors locked, Sherlock wasn't going to try and pick the bolt; that would take too much time. He backed up and slammed his shoulder into the crack between the two tall doors and raced inside. "Moriarty!"


	7. Chapter 7

"Dear Sherlock," Moriarty replied.

Sherlock couldn't see the maniac, he just heard the voice. "I'm not here to play a game, I'm here for John."

"Oh, but it is a game," Moriarty said from his invisible speaking point. "It's all a game, isn't it?"

"Well, I'm done playing," Sherlock responded. "And I will have John back."

Moriarty chuckled. "Come and get him, sexy."

"Moriarty!" Sherlock screamed, but the psychopath had disappeared, and the consulting detective was left unguided in the large and mostly empty church.

John, meanwhile, was unconscious yet again. He wasn't badly hurt, Sebastian had just knocked him out with a clean blow to the temple. The doctor's shoulders were slumped against the wall, the rest of him curled up on the floor. The handcuffs taken off, his limp body was crumpled up in the wrong way; a way not possible had he been awake.

The lights around the doctor had been shut off when Moriarty and Sebastian left.

"Where is he?" Sherlock called, immediately beginning to search the first floor. Opening doors and slamming them shut within two seconds. _I just have to find him quickly._ He continued along every corridor, looking into every room. All were dim, and Sherlock was looking too quickly to really see anything anyway.

The consulting detective sprinted up the grand set of stairs, his long black coat flying behind him. Minutes ticked past as Sherlock yanked open more doors, this time leaving them ajar in his wake.

John was beginning to come around, blinking several times to clear the flashing lights from his eyes. _I hear some sort of… thudding. Footsteps!_

Sherlock pulled open more doors, running along the corridor.

John couldn't do anything as he saw the door open, close, and Sherlock spin out of sight for what he thought was the last time ever. He tried to find his voice, but it was too late. Only when darkness had enveloped the doctor again did he call. "Sherlock!"

But Sherlock didn't hear him. He hadn't seen him either, for John was just a small, crumpled pile against the wall of a room that the consulting detective whizzed by too fast to see. He raced along the rest of the corridor, and there was no John.

With no other option, Sherlock ran back down the stairs and nearly bumped into Moriarty.

The psychopath and his cohort, Sebastian, were in the main hall.

"Where is he? There is no John here!" Sherlock yelled.

"Yes there is…" Moriarty sang. "You just haven't searched hard enough."

"I checked every room!"

"Well, Johnny might be looking a little worse for the wear, but you still should be able to recognize him," said Moriarty.

Sherlock lunged forwards and grabbed Moriarty's coat collar. "What did you do to him?" he whispered.

"Sebastian! Shoot him!" cried Moriarty.

The gunman stood, two options running through his head. _Well, I could do as Moriarty says, but I can't! I kinda had a soft spot for that little John. I could run away, find John, and get out of here. That sounds pretty good to me right now, but… Moriarty would hunt me down and find me. _And Sebastian took neither option.

A gunshot rang and echoed through the halls.

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, which he had closed in preparation for the bullet. _I'm not hurt… _"Ah!" He thrust Moriarty away from him.

The bullet had embedded itself in the psychopath's temple.

Sherlock turned to Sebastian, ready to take the bullet that he supposed had missed before. He closed his eyes.

"Uh, guy?" Sebastian tapped Sherlock on the shoulder. "Don't you want your John back?"

"What?" Sherlock opened one eye, surveying Sebastian. "You… You killed him. You killed Moriarty?"

"Yeah!" Sebastian sounded confused, but proud of himself.

"Bring me to John!" Sherlock cried, pulling himself away from Sebastian and whipping out his gun. "Now, show me where he is!" _This man is obviously still evil… he must be trying to play a trick on me. _

At gunpoint, Sebastian brought Sherlock back up the stairs and down the corridor. They passed many doors and finally, the gunman halted.

"Here?" Sherlock asked. "But I checked here and he wasn't-"

"You didn't check well enough, obviously," Sebastian interrupted, opening the fated door and flicking on the lights.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N- Guys! Guys! Remember the flat? Uh-huh? The yucky one that they went into in the season 1 finale? Well, I used it! Yay! And this is the end, but there might be a sequel, if y'all want one and tell me.

"John." Sherlock's voice cracked.

"Sher… Sherlock," John stammered.

The gun clattered to the floor and Sherlock knelt by his friend.

John pretty much fell into Sherlock's arms, grabbing his friend's coat. "I th-thought-"

"Shh," Sherlock hushed, resting his cheek on the top of the doctor's head.

John looked up at the consulting detective and was surprised to see the pale blue eyes welling up with clear liquid.

Sherlock shot the doctor a watery smile and whispered through tears. "Bastard… I wrecked half my mind palace because of you."

John's shoulders began to shake, half laughing, half crying. "Jesus, Sherlock. I missed you."

"Really?"

"You have no idea," John chuckled.

Sebastian stood, watching the two. _They care about each other so much… How could I have even thought of shooting the tall guy?_

"I think I can stand on my own," John was saying. He tried, and promptly collapsed.

"Uh, I'll carry you, if you want," offered Sebastian.

Sherlock stepped neatly in between the two. "No." Immediately after speaking, he felt bad. _Face the facts, Sherlock. This man is on your side. But… I'm not letting anyone else touch John until we're safe back home at Baker Street._ He picked John up himself, and carried the doctor down the corridor.

Sebastian didn't move, having sensed that they hated him. _What will I do now? I shot my only 'friend' and I'm wanted in nine countries. What if-_

"Come on!" Sherlock's voice came from around the door. "Are you just going to stand there like an idiot, or are you going to get the gun?"

A smile spread over Sebastian's face. He bent to pick up the pistol and ran down the hall after the two. "Here's your gun, Mr. Holmes." He offered the weapon.

"Carry it for me," Sherlock said, gesturing towards the gun with a wave of his head. "And please: call me Sherlock."

The trio left the old church, where the taxi was waiting for them.

"Uh, what about… you know, the body?" Sebastian asked, looking tentatively back to where they left Moriarty.

"That." Sherlock helped John into the taxi. "Fire about three shots into the air, the police should show up in no time."

Sebastian grinned, admiring the genius of the solution as he did as told.

The taxi ride was long and bumpy; Moriarty had picked a very remote spot for his hideout. They didn't talk much, and when they did it mostly consisted of John asking what had happened and Sebastian and Sherlock trying to fill him in.

When the three reached 221 B, darkness was beginning to fall.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock yelled.

"Hmm?" The landlady appeared from her flat. She gasped. "Oh, John! Thank goodness you're safe. You had me up every night worrying." She patted the doctor's shoulder. "Sherlock, who's your friend?"

"I'm Sebastian Moran," Sebastian said, shaking Mrs. Hudson's hand.

"He's your taker for the basement flat," Sherlock said. "Sebastian, you will be needing a home, am I right?"

Sebastian nodded, feeling slightly embarrassed.

"Lovely. It's quite a nice flat if you ignore the mold," the consulting detective said, with a bit of his old attitude. "Mrs. Hudson, show him around."

With that, Sherlock and John went up the stairs to their home, the first time either of them had been there for several days. John because he was chained up in a church, and Sherlock because it wasn't home without his blogger.

"So, what should we do?" asked Sherlock.

John shrugged. "I don't know about you, but I'm going to make tea, get into my pyjamas, and sleep."

Sherlock smiled: John hadn't changed a bit.


End file.
